Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“Really?” she whispers.
“Yes. You are safe with me. What did I tell you earlier?”
She’s quiet for several beats. “Nothing gets through you.”
“That’s right.” She’s starting to calm down, her body relaxing into me, but I want to be positive she’s reassured. I want to completely drive out the fear. Thus, I find myself unbuttoning my shirt down to my navel. Then I pick up her hand and guide her fingers inside the opening of my shirt, taking her on a tour of my scars, which are many. “Not bullets, not acts of nature…” I slide her palm down to my right abdomen where one of the worst puckers lives. “Not shrapnel or blades. I’m a wall between you and danger.”
“You don’t even like me,” she yawns.
My throat muscles are strained in an instant, my heart suspiciously sensitive. “You’re not as bad as I thought,” I manage, hoarsely.
“That’s nice,” she murmurs, her eyes closing, head lolling against my shoulder. “You can go now. I’m fine.”
I drop my chin more securely atop her head. “Go to sleep.”
A moment passes where I sense she wants to protest sleeping in my arms. Hell, I want to protest it as much as I want…need it to happen. But her argument dies in its inception, and she snuggles into me, some of the blanket falling away from her thighs.
That’s when I see the rebel brand seared into her hip.
And my carefully constructed resentment shatters like a fist through glass.
I will never leave her side again.
five
. . .
Greta
I woke up in my bed this morning for the first time in a year.
I’m…rested.
I didn’t jolt awake and reach for my dagger, as I usually do.
All because I fell asleep in the arms of my bodyguard. Highly unusual behavior. Not befitting of a princess whatsoever. But it was my best sleep in recent memory.
Don’t get used to it.
Come hell or high water, the commander is leaving today. I’m not going to keep him at the palace against his will. I won’t be any more of a burden on him than I already have been. Resolved to make my mother believe I’m recovered enough to dismiss Conrad, I walk through the great hall of the palace, the nape of my neck warm and tingly, thanks to the man himself walking directly behind me.
A glance over my shoulder confirms he’s surly as ever, giving disgusted once-overs to everyone we pass on the way out the door, into the fresh air, where two SUVs are waiting to bring us on an excursion outside of the palace. To the horse ranch. Up until now, I was relatively calm, but seeing how many people are lined up and waiting, watching me approach with an air of skepticism, makes my legs feel like jelly.
“Really, this didn’t need to be such a production,” I say, my voice sounding embarrassingly thin. “I’m sure you all have much better things to do with your day than watch me tend to the horses.”
“We’re more than happy to be accompanying you on your transition back to the real world, princess,” says Rolf the footman, beaming at me as he opens the door to the idling vehicle and comes forward to guide me toward it.
Conrad steps between me and the Rolf before he can get within three feet. “The princess doesn’t require your assistance.” He rests a hand on the small of my back, shuffling me closer to him and I look up to find him frowning at the gathered group. “Why are there so many of you coming with us? This isn’t a fucking birthday party.”
Several members of staff flinch over his choice of language. “Well,” says Rolf, his face pinkening slightly. “We have our medical response team in case an emergency should arise, additional guards, the official palace social media documentarians…which mean we obviously require hair and makeup—”
“No,” Conrad clips.
Rolf backs up a pace. “No?”
“You heard me.” He lowers his voice. “This is going to be hard enough for her without an audience. She needs security. And I suppose the medical response team. But nothing more. Everyone else can go practice lipstick somewhere else.”
“But, sir—”
“Commander,” Conrad corrects him, urging me forward. “I’ll ride with Greta. Everyone else can go in the other car.”
I hold my composure until we’re seated in the middle row of the SUV, seatbelts engaged, then a breath of laughter bursts out of me. “Apparently you’re not the least bit interested in making friends.”
“I don’t need friends.” He tests my seatbelt, then grunts at the driver to let him know we’re ready to go. “Friends are obligations. Obligations are annoying.”
Message received. He’s reminding me I need to succeed today, so he can go home.
As the vehicle rolls forward, bringing us toward the gates to leave the palace, my fingers clutch and twist in my lap, my mind bombarded with visions of rebels converging on me, enflamed hatred in their eyes. “You d-didn’t have friends in the service?”